HMS Saracen

by Douglas Reeman

  Now that was soon to be finished. As a fresh wave of despair passed over him he began to move quickly and aimlessly about the wide, shabby stateroom, with its heavy furniture and frayed carpet. When Chesnaye had returned from his brief visit to the flagship he had thrown himself into the waiting correspondence as if by doing so he could blot out the misery which Beaushears had so coldly thrown at him. Now Paymaster Sub-Lieutenant Philpott and the Chief Writer had departed, and he was unable to keep his wretchedness at bay. The interview with the Admiral had been much as he had expected. After being kept waiting for the best part of an hour he had been ushered into Beaushears’ quarters by the same elegant flag-lieutenant. But this time Beaushears had seen him alone, his face stiff and yet somehow eager as he slammed home one point after another.

  `I warned you, Chesnaye.’ Beaushears had started to pace, as if he had been working himself into a rage for some time. `But you still think you know best ! I’ve had a dozen reports to do concerning this minelayer business, and I’m about sick of it !’

  Chesnaye had kept his voice under control with effort. `My orders gave me a certain latitude, sir. I landed my stores and the Army were very grateful.’

  Beaushears waved his hand impatiently. `I’ve received a signal about that and the bombardment you took upon yourself to supply!’ He seemed beside himself. `Naturally the Army were pleased ! What do they know about our situation? We’re snowed under with work, and, in case you’re interested, we’re even shorter of ships and men than we were before!’

  Chesnaye spoke carefully : `The Greek campaign was a waste of time. I implied as much when I was here before !’ He could feel his reserves of patience draining away. Days and nights on the bridge without sleep were taking their toll. In any case, Beaushears had obviously made up his mind without much goading. `I understand we lost twentythree ships in one day, and two hospital ships to boot. I’m not surprised the Admiralty axe worried!’

  Beaushears had stopped his pacing and had stared at him with sudden calm. `Look, Chesnaye, you seem to misunderstand why you are here ! I didn’t call you to this ship to ask your opinions of world strategy or how to run my squadron. You were given a task, straightforward and uncomplicated. Not to mince words, you made a complete muck of it. If it hadn’t been for that stupid bombardment you would have been clear away and in a position to stop the minelayer. It’s the convoy all over again. You just cannot bring yourself to understand that your job is not to decide policy but to obey orders, in this instance my orders!’

  Outside the curtained doorway Chesnaye had heard the distant laughter of the flagship’s officers as they gathered for their pre-lunch gins in the wardroom. Always after Sunday Divisions the occasion seemed gayer and more exuberant, like a first-night of a dramatic society where the players have brought off a performance without muffing their lines.

  It had painfully reminded him of the day he had joined the Saracen for the first time in Portsmouth. A callow youth, nervous, but hiding behind a mask of impassive calm, as he was before Beaushears. At that far-off time the monitor’s officers had also been recovering from Divisions. In his mind’s eye Chesnaye recalled the scene like a picture from an old book. The heavy epaulettes and frock-coats, but otherwise the same Navy. The thought and realisation made him angry again. Of course, that was the fault with the Navy, with the whole fighting machine. The men who were the professionals were in fact only amateurs. They ignored experience, and carried on with their same outworn ideas.

  Coldly he had replied, `The Saracen’s first task is to supply support for land forces!’

  Beaushears’ interruption had been loud and final. `Not any more ! She’s little more than a store-ship as far as I’m concerned ! With the enemy putting on the pressure throughout the Mediterranean it now seems even that role is unsuitable!’ Beaushears had forced himself to sit down. `Your orders will explain what you have to do. Saracen will sail when repairs are completed, probably within seven days, and proceed to Malta. The island is near collapse because of lack of supplies, and we are going to push a fast convoy from here in the hope that some of the ships get there. Force “H” will be faking a dummy run from Gibraltar to divide enemy forces, and everything will be done to get the ships through. Saracen will sail early, and our convoy should overtake you a day or so before you reach Malta. You can supply extra anti-aircraft cover, and my squadron will screen the convoy from surface attack.’ Beaushears had dropped his eyes. `At Malta Saracen can continue to supply A.A. cover for the harbour and act as a base ship for personnel, etcetera. If she avoids being sunk she might still be of some use.’

  Chesnaye could still feel the shock of those words. `You mean she’ll not be required for sea again, sir? Not wanted?’

  `That is exactly what I mean. You have two hundred trained ratings aboard. Most of them will be needed for other ships as replacements. Your second-in-command has been offered a ship of his own, and most of your other officers will no doubt be willing to leave as early as they can.’

  Chesnaye had a mental picture of the Saracen tied alongside the bombed shambles of Malta’s dockyard as the island received one air raid after another. Destroyers and cruisers had already fallen to the attacks. The old monitor would survive for an even shorter period.

  In a strangled voice he had asked, `Will I be retained in command?’

  Beaushears had regarded him directly for the first time. `That will be up to your new flag officer. But I have stated in my report that I consider the maintenance of a full captain aboard to be unnecessary. The ship will be a floating gun battery. Any junior officer should be able to do that job ! No, Chesnaye, your place is at home. Go back to training men for the Navy. Your ideas are out of touch. Perhaps later,’ he had shrugged indifferently, `but now we have an immediate job to do.’

  It had taken every ounce of Chesnaye’s control to stop from openly pleading. Looking back, it seemed as if that was what Beaushears had expected. There had been a long silence, and then Beaushears had said, `You would have said the same if the roles were reversed.’

  Chesnaye had stood up, his face pale. `Your seniority gives you the right to express that opinion, sir. It still gives me the right to repudiate it!’

  Chesnaye glanced at his watch. The interview had only taken place a few hours ago. The wounded troops had been landed just that morning. It all seemed so long past that Chesnaye felt confused. He needed sleep, and he had not found the time to eat, yet he knew that he could not give in or leave himself open to his despair. In a moment or two his steward would be fussing around him and getting his uniform ready for the wardroom party. The thought almost made him give in to the flood of emotion which pressed so hard on his reason.

  No wonder Erskine had wanted a party. He had already known the outcome of the interview with Beaushears. To think that Beaushears could use his position to destroy him through a subordinate officer. It did not matter what Erskine had said. There was no open accusation of negligence, so, as usual, the Admiral had it all on his side.

  Chesnaye thought of the pseudo-training establishments with their painted stones and pompous instructors. In a fit of anger he told himself he should have stayed in New Zealand, and then he looked again at the shabby stateroom and seemed to see beyond and through the length of the ship herself

  Sailing day was still a week away. Anything might happen before that. But even as he tried to restore his belief he knew that he was deluding himself.

  If he had been given command of any other ship this would never have happened. But he did not want another command. The Saracen was not just a ship, nor had she ever been.

  He was staring at the open scuttle when the steward entered and began to lay out his uniform.

  .

  The Saracen’s wardroom had been cleared of unnecessary furniture and fittings for the party, but was nevertheless crammed to overflowing with noisy, perspiring visitors. Mostly officers and officials from the Base, with a sprinkling from other wardrooms of nearby ships. Older, more senior,
officers looked unnaturally gay in their mess-jackets, whilst the reservists stood or slumped in white drill which was already crumpled and stained in the close, smoke-thickened atmosphere. There were women, too. Mostly nurses, with a handful of Wren officers, the wives of government officials and a few others who had merely arrived with their escorts.

  Wickersley leaned back in a canvas chair, one arm resting on the side of the long makeshift bar, behind which the stewards ladled ice into pink gins and refilled glasses as fast as they were able. He glanced at his companions and swallowed some more gin. From his short experience of the Navy these parties all seemed the same. All you needed was a ship. There was always an unlimited number of people waiting to be invited. Mostly shore-based people who never turned their backs on a chance of getting hold of some duty-free booze. Wickersley laughed at the idea and groped vaguely for another glass.

  Must be getting tight already, he thought. It was always the same. You drank too much to stave off the boredom of speaking to people you did not know and would not see again, and then you were too far gone to care. With one ear he could hear Fox speaking to Tregarth; the Chief Engineer. They had both been drinking steadily, their faces set and fixed with the grim determination of men who do not intend to give away their exact state of intoxication.

  `Lot of bloody rot, Chief!’ Fox sounded angry. `It’s as good as paying off the old ship!’

  Tregarth grunted, `Wouldn’t last five minutes in the Union Castle !’

  Wickersley wondered what would not last five minutes but he knew what Tregarth was angry about. Just before the first guests had arrived the Captain had met all the officers in the wardroom and told them of the new arrangements. Wickersley had watched him fixedly, looking for some sign of the man’s inner feelings.

  Only when Bouverie had said unexpectedly, `Well, I think it’s a damned shame, sir!’ had Chesnaye dropped his guard. He had regarded the ex-barrister for several seconds and then, `It is, Sub.’ Wickersley thought that was the end of it, but something seemed to be driving Chesnaye on, as if he could no longer bear the strain of his secret. `As a matter of fact I love this ship. To some of you that may seem strange.’ He looked round the flag-decorated wardroom, his eyes suddenly wretched. `Given a chance we would have done something worth while together.’

  Wickersley still wondered about the use of `we’. Did he mean the whole ship’s company, or just ship and captain?

  Anyway, it was all decided. Wickersley tasted the neat gin on his tongue and ran his finger around his tight collar. But he knew what Chesnaye felt. From the moment Wickersley had opened his letters from home he had undermod, perhaps for the first time, what loneliness meant, and Chesnaye certainly knew that.

  Wickersley’s wife had written a neat, concise letter. She always wrote like that, just as she lived. Neat, well thought cut, nothing wasted.

  He felt the anger surging through his drink-clouded mind. She had told him in the shortest possible style that she had left him. Just like that. There was no hint of who tie other man was, except that `he is a friend of yours’. So that was that.

  ‘Jesus!’ Wickersley banged down the glass and the others stared at him. Even Norris, who had been watching an e’derly officer dancing pressed against a slim nurse, looked su-rurisea.

  Fox said : `What’s eating you, Doc? Been at the pills again?’

  Wickersley shrugged and signalled to a steward. ‘Something like that!’ What was the point of spreading it around? It could not help him now. He caught sight of E rskine approaching their small group with his hand resting lightly on the elbow of a tall, very attractive girl.

  Erskine stood looking down at the others, his face smiling but unsure. `This is Ann Curzon.’ He made the introductions as they got to their feet. `They’re the core of the wardroom!’

  In spite of his anger and misery Wickersley’s keen senses told him that the atmosphere was strained. Fox was looking at Erskine as if he was a complete stranger, and the girl seemed too bright, toc casual, like someone playing a part, he thought.

  Rudely Wickersley interrupted the stilted conversation, `Well, Ann, how about having a drink with the poor old doctor?’

  She smiled, and it was then that he noticed the slight redness around her eys. That bastard Erskine, he thought vaguely.

  ‘Yes, I’d like that.’

  She moved towards :aim, but Erskine said quickly, `There are one or two more p.-,ogle you should meet, Ann.’

  `Come with me.’ Wickersley took her arm, an idea forming in his reeling mind.

  He almost pushed t! -.e girl out of the small semicircle, and then Erskine tried to bar his path. `I think you’ve had a bit too much to drink, Doe!’

  Wickersiey weighed up the facts with elaborate care. The girl was very willing t:) leave Erskine. She was not putting on an act now. He leaned across to Erskine and said in his ear, `Go and get stuff rrrd !’ Then with a fixed smile on his streaming face he .guicod the girl through the swaying dancers and towards the quarterdeck ladder.

  `It’s cooler on deck,’ ‘ie said. `Much nicer.’

  Erskine had mention, rd this girl once or twice. Like a possession, he thought. Now, if half the rumours were right, he was getting rid of her too. `I apologise for my haste, Ann. But, as you see, I’ve had a hard day.’

  The quarterdeck w -,.s deserted but for an anonymous couple huddled right aft below the ensign staff. Side awnings had been rigged to protect any strollers from the cool harbour breeze and to contain the glare of light from the wardroom hatch. Wic kersley led the girl to a gap in the awnings and pointed a..ross the glittering water.

  `A bit of air does the patient good, y’know !’

  Her teeth gleamed i.hi the purple half-light. `Thank you for pulling me out of treat crowd. I was beginning to wonder why I came at all!’

  Wickersley fumbled ‘or his cigarettes. We are all playing parts, he thought. Each hiding some inner worry from the next and thinking it doesn’t show.

  She took the proffered cigarette and waited as he clicked his lighter. `I’m not usually like this,’ he said after a moment, `but things have been a bit hectic here lately.’ And, by the way, my wife has run off with a good friend of mine, he wanted to add. `It’s like a calm after a storm.’

  He felt her start and turn to the footsteps which thudded across the deck planking.

  Erskine loomed out of the darkness, his mess-jacket gleaming like a ghost. `Now what the hell are you playing at?’

  Wickersley was not sure which one of them was being addressed, but the irritated rasp in Erskine’s tone was the final straw. `Go away!’

  `You’re drunk!’ Erskine seemed twice his normal size in Wickersley’s misty vision. ‘D’you think this is the way to behave in front of my guest?’

  The Doctor shrugged. `I’m past caring what you think.’ The girl threw her cigarette over the rail. `Really, John, don’t be so stuffy ! Anyway, I’m not your guest. I’m not your anything any more!’

  Erskine seemed to recoil. `So that’s the way of it. Drop one, grab another!’

  She turned her face away, and Wickersley said thickly, `If you don’t shove off I’m going to forget my oath and smash that arrogant face in!’

  There was a quiet footfall by the hatch and Chesnaye stood motionless against the pale awning.

  The other three stood like statues. Erskine with hands on his hips, jaw jutting forward, Wickersley, whose fists were already raised but frozen in mid-air. Only the girl seemed real. She had half turned and was watching Chesnaye’s tall figure as if to gauge the power he seemed to hold over the others.

  Chesnaye said evenly : `There.. are guests below, Number One. There seems to be a preponderance of ship’s officers up here.’

  Erskine said, `I was dealing with the Doctor, sir, he ? Wickersley interrupted calmly, `I was just going to knock his head off.’

  There was a pause and Chesnaye continued, `When I was a midshipman I once knocked a senior officer to the deck!’ Surprisingly he chuckled. `It did me a pow
er of good!’ Then, as the other officers gaped at him : `Now go below and behave yourselves. If anybody in this ship has a right to beat somebody brains out I think I have already proved myself eligible by my early example!’

  Erskine sounded confused. `Yes, sir.’ Without another word he walked to the ladder.

  Wickersley decided it was time for another drink. A large one. It had been a remarkably simple feat, really. Get the girl on deck and Erskine, and the Captain was bound to follow.

  Chesnaye was completely alone, but unlike any other man aboard he could not share his emptiness. This Ann Curzon might make him forget, even for an evening. The near disaster had been worth it. Erskine needed a good hiding anyway.

  Wickersley bowed to the girl and then said : `Permission to fall out, sir? Perhaps you would take over my duties as escort?’

  Chesnaye grinned. `Go below before you fall over.’

  They watched Wickersley stagger towards the ladder, neither aware of his inner misery, but on the deserted deck each suddenly conscious of one another.

  `It’s a beautiful view from here.’

  The night air was almost cold as it fanned across the upper bridge, but the girl did not seem to notice it. She stood on the port gratings, her body pale against the grey steel, her arms wide as she rested them on the broken screen.

  Chesnaye stood in the centre of the deserted bridge, his mind unable to associate this girl’s presence with what had gone before. The ship was quite still and he could no longer hear the raucous beat of the wardroom gramophone, nor the almost hysterical gaiety from the remaining visitors. Overhead, the stars were large and very low, and it was quite impossible to imagine what had been enacted above this very place. The screaming bombers and the last des. perate attack by that fanatical pilot.